


Lifestyle Change

by AirgiodSLV



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2010-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Cobb, what did I tell you about babysitting?” Arthur says calmly. “Call me when they’re old enough to solve a Rubik’s cube.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifestyle Change

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/9327.html?thread=17471343#t17471343) on the kink meme.

Eames can hear Arthur talking to someone as soon as he walks through the door, and guessing by the volume level and the fact that he can only hear Arthur’s side of the conversation, he must be on the phone. Judging by the longsuffering exasperation level, the person on the other end must be Cobb.

The last time he’d heard, Cobb had taken a job in Jakarta, so Eames is possessed of a certain level of curiosity about what brings him to call Arthur mid-contract. Curious enough, in fact, that when he comes around to the other side of the kitchenette where Arthur is weighing an acorn squash in one hand and examining the contents of the fridge, he simply plucks the phone out of Arthur’s hand and clicks it onto speakerphone.

Arthur glares at him, but his instinctive reaction isn’t to jab his fingers into Eames’ throat and twist his arm behind his back before ramming a semi-automatic pistol into the soft skin under his chin, which means he must have heard Eames come in. They’ve been relatively good about that, lately. Eames occasionally still tries to sneak up on him, but Arthur’s onto him, and not often in the mood to indulge Eames’ desire for a joint adrenaline spike. Which is a pity.

“–only one I trust,” Cobb is saying when Eames sets the phone back into its cradle on the wall. “There’s no one else I can ask to do this.”

“Cobb, what did I tell you about babysitting?” Arthur says calmly. “Call me when they’re old enough to solve a Rubik’s cube.”

“Come on,” Cobb’s voice entreats from the speaker. “I can’t get away, and I promised them they could go this year. What else are you going to be doing on a Friday night?”

“Having smashing sex, most likely,” Eames interjects before Arthur can reply with something appropriately dry and biting. “What precisely is it that you’re suggesting as an alternative?”

“Hello, Eames.” Cobb doesn’t sound nearly as surprised as he might. Clearly Eames needs to up his game. “My flight was canceled, I’m still in Jakarta. I was asking if Arthur would take James and Phillipa trick-or-treating tomorrow night.”

“Well, personally I’d still go for the sex,” Eames admits. He ignores the warning look from Arthur that means, judging from prior experience, that Eames is likely going to end up bent over the counter with Arthur’s forearm across his larynx if he doesn’t quiet down in short order. Out of self-preservation, however, he does prudently jump ahead to the point. “But all right, we’ll do it. What time do we need to pick the little ones up?”

Arthur shoots him a glare; Eames just holds up a hand for patience. Arthur at least trusts him enough to let it go for now, although Eames fully anticipates an inquisition as soon as they disconnect.

“Five-thirty,” Cobb says, sounding immensely relieved. Hearing that, Eames thinks Arthur would have caved on his own in a matter of time. Arthur has no problem turning down a job or a game plan and telling Cobb precisely how many ways he can go fuck himself if he thinks Arthur is going to do it, but when it comes to the mini-Cobbs, he’s notoriously something of a pushover. Eames thinks that has a lot to do with Mal, but he’s never asked.

“Neighborhood trick-or-treating starts at six, but you’ll have to go early to make sure they’re dressed and have their shoes on,” Cobb continues. Arthur starts to reach for the pad of paper on the counter, presumably to take notes, and then visibly stops himself. Eames has to cover his mouth and scratch his nose to hide his smile, which he doesn’t do a very good job at, judging by the way Arthur throws the pen and hits him squarely between the eyes.

There’s a very brief and not at all stimulating game of keep-away that turns into a vertical wrestling match, and Eames is going to have some bruises in interesting places tomorrow, but it’s entirely worth it for the way Arthur goes still when Eames finally pins him against the stovetop. It’s a stillness Eames knows never to trust, because it doesn’t mean Arthur is defeated, merely that he’s waiting for the critical moment to make his move and turn the tables. Eames finds it incalculably more arousing as a result.

“What were you going to write?” he murmurs next to Arthur’s ear, sinking his weight forward just enough to persuade Arthur this isn’t the moment he’s looking for. “Dressed? Shoes? With little ticky boxes, perhaps?”

“–bed by ten,” Eames hears Cobb say when he finally registers the sound of his voice, followed by the expectant pause of someone awaiting confirmation. Or possibly suspicious that his conversational partners have ceased listening.

Eames vaguely recalls something about bags to collect sweets and the nanny waiting for them to return, so he’s not terribly worried about Cobb’s instructions. Arthur seizes on his moment of distraction to jam an elbow into his gut, punching the air out of his lungs in one noisy whoosh, and frees himself in time to smoothly collect the phone from the wall.

“Yes, of course,” he says, sounding perfectly calm and not at all like his shirt is half-untucked and his hair is falling rather adorably askew over one eye. Eames lounges against the stove, one arm cradled protectively over the blossoming bruise covering his kidney, and admires his handiwork.

Arthur utters a few more meaningless assurances and hangs up the phone before turning to look at Eames. Eames presents him with one of his more-convincing innocent smiles.

“You want to take Cobb’s kids trick-or-treating,” Arthur says.

“Why not?” Eames replies. “Jack o’ lanterns, recorded organ music, children running amuck…what’s not to love?”

Arthur shakes his head, tone thoroughly skeptical. “Really.”

“Really,” Eames agrees. His mouth curves up slightly. “Or I could have been thinking that Cobb owes us a rather considerable favor now, and that you’ve been quite wistfully eyeing that case of Madeira he keeps boasting about every time we go over there.”

Arthur stares at him for a moment, and then his expression warms to mirror Eames’. “Am I allowed to say I’m impressed?” he asks.

Eames leans back slightly and kicks his legs open wider, adopting a casual stance at odds with the way his body is still humming gently from their brief scuffle. “I suppose that depends,” he decides, regarding Arthur appraisingly. “How impressed?”

Arthur takes the bait, comes to stand between Eames’ legs and stops just before their thighs brush. “Well,” he admits, “someone did just cancel my plans for Friday night.”

“Did they indeed?” Eames answers. “Pity. Allow me to make that up to you.”

-

Arthur is dressing meticulously when Eames returns to the bedroom after his shopping trip, and he pauses in the doorway to watch Arthur fastening the final buttons at the collar and tugging his shirt cuffs past the sleeves of his suit jacket. He looks buttoned-up and pressed-down, a responsible adult authority figure, and Eames wonders idly how many young parents are going to be trying to remember if they’ve met him before at PTA meetings.

He sees Arthur start to complete the ensemble out of habit by tucking his SIG into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back, before catching himself and setting it back on the night table.

“Probably don’t want that around the children, no,” Eames says, pushing off the doorframe to saunter into the room.

Arthur glances over at him, expression unreadable for the most part, but Eames can see the way the corners of Arthur’s eyes tighten with amusement. “I’d figured that out for myself, thank you,” he replies.

“Hmm.” Eames comes closer to both Arthur and the bed, giving Arthur a once-over to remind him of how appreciative Eames is of what he has. “You kept the boot knife, though, didn’t you?”

Arthur throws him a put-upon look as he does up his tie with quick, clever fingers. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “Cobb is a high-profile target and we’ll have his children out in the open in the dark, surrounded by strangers with their faces covered. Of course I’m bringing the knife.”

Eames suppresses a smile with only partial success, stepping forward to replace Arthur’s hands on his tie. “Here, your knot’s crooked,” he says, fussing with the silky fabric.

Arthur holds still and lets him do it, but his eyes don’t leave Eames’ face. “My ties are never crooked,” he says evenly.

Eames lingers for a moment longer, smoothing his hands over the starched line of Arthur’s collar before flashing a smile. “No?” he says, feigning innocence. “My mistake.”

Arthur’s head starts to tilt in a way Eames is intimately familiar with, and he’s leaning in to complete the circuit when Arthur stops moving, his eyes suddenly flicking down over Eames’ torso as if only just now realizing something is out of the ordinary. “What are you _wearing?_ ”

Eames takes a step back and spreads his arms, turning in a circle to properly display the gray herringbone Inverness. “My costume, obviously. It’s not finished yet, I’m afraid. Still missing a few things.”

He has the black leather gloves in his coat pocket, which he hadn’t been planning to put on until they’d taken the children out, but he’s never been able to resist showing off a little for Arthur. It’s more than worth it to see the way Arthur’s eyes follow the movement as he pulls the leather tight over his hands, wriggling and flexing his fingers.

The mahogany calabash pipe is in the other pocket, but the deerstalker hat is still out on the kitchen counter, awaiting their departure. It’s still enough for Arthur to make the connection, apparently, because Eames can see the light of recognition kindle in his eyes.

“A famous literary detective?” Arthur says. “I would have thought Eduardo de Valfierno would be more your style.”

“Tempting,” Eames agrees, “but I’m afraid no one besides you would ever get it. I prefer for my efforts to be appreciated.”

“I’m shocked,” Arthur returns, and there’s just enough drawl in his voice to make Eames glance at the clock and check to see whether they have any extra time. Quarter after. Bugger. He steps back and smiles, cocking his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

Arthur grumbles something Eames can’t make much out of besides ‘Cobb’, ‘babysitting,’ and ‘fuck’, but that’s enough to make him grin as he follows Arthur out of the bedroom. Besides which, it’s a lovely view.

-

The Cobb children are in fact already costumed when they arrive, which means they have some time to relax and entertain before they embark upon the evening’s planned festivities. Phillipa shows them the jack o’ lantern their father had made sure to carve with their guidance before he left for Jakarta, and the row of gourds lined up on the windowsill with yarn hair and glued-on googly eyes.

She tells them she’s Maid Marian, although she’s clad in far more pastel pink and gauzy fabric than Marian would ever have worn, a cone hat secured under her chin with elastic and a veil trailing behind her, catching on James’ toys left out on the furniture.

James is dressed as a magician, and Eames spends twenty minutes of their half-hour practicing and perfecting the one card trick James knows. Cobb had forbidden any more than sleight-of-hand and party tricks the last time Eames and Arthur came around, which is why James only knows one, but Eames is biding his time. There’s a lot you can teach someone using sleight-of-hand and party tricks.

Eventually the clock ticks over to six. Arthur still waits until the first noises can be heard outside, and they see a mixed group of firemen, princesses, and tiny bipedal farm animals through the window, making their way down the sidewalk.

There’s no holding the kids back after that, so neither of them even try. Plastic pumpkin buckets in hand, they head out to make a full circuit of the block.

Arthur reaches out and takes James’ hand without batting an eye. Phillipa is already plastered to Eames’ side, hand in his even though she tells her father she’s too old for that when Cobb tries to do the same thing. Eames has always been her favourite uncle, which Eames has never truly understood. Somber, grown-up Phillipa is so like Arthur sometimes that Eames has frequently had to bite his tongue on tactless questions regarding her parentage. He doesn’t think either Arthur or Cobb would be amused.

“Safety buddies,” Phillipa says, which has to be something she learned from Cobb. “We have to stay together.”

She looks meaningfully at the two adults in the group. Eames’ first instinct is to switch sides so that James and Phillipa are on the inside between them, where they can better protect them, but to his surprise Arthur reaches out and takes Eames’ hand. Eames is wearing the leather gloves, so he can’t feel the dry warmth of Arthur’s palm, but it’s still a pleasant pressure where their fingers are intertwined.

“For safety,” Arthur says, deadpan without looking over at him.

Eames recovers from his surprise and grins, squeezing Arthur’s hand lightly. “Of course,” he agrees. After a moment, he feels either brave or foolhardy enough to comment, “You know, I believe this is the first time we’ve ever done this.”

“Puerto Vallarta,” Arthur replies. “The Castillo job.”

“Ah,” Eames says, blinking. “Right, yes. Of course.”

They break apart at the first house, automatically shifting into watchful surrogate-parents, Arthur taking point when the kids start up the sidewalk as if the habit is too strongly ingrained for him to break. Eames remains at the end of the sidewalk to wait for them, hands in the pockets of his Inverness watching the strong, straight line of Arthur’s back as he follows James and Phillipa up to the porch.

Phillipa is too excited by costumes and candy to pay much attention to her honorary uncles, so they simply walk beside each other when they resume their path down the street, not quite close enough for their arms to brush. Eames doesn’t think twice about it until he sees the woman and small child walking up the sidewalk in their direction, at which point he reaches out and takes firm hold of Arthur’s hand.

Arthur glances over at him, amused. “You know she’s harmless,” he says mildly.

“She’s a devil,” Eames corrects. “If she could find a way to slip poison into her ridiculous over-baked cookies without risking you, I would be a dead man.”

Arthur visibly bites his lip to keep from smiling, which makes Eames glower at him rather unsubtly in response. It’s hardly a laughing matter.

Mrs. Calloway – or Mad Maude, as Eames prefers to call her behind closed doors and occasionally just barely out of her hearing – has a son James’ age, and the two of them are frequently at Cobb’s for play dates and social calls. She’s a divorcee, and while cheerful enough, she seems a bit lonely playing the role of single parent. Eames would sympathize, except that she has over the past seven or eight months quite visibly set her sights on Arthur, who is at least ten years younger than she is, and who also happens to belong to Eames.

“We could make a break for it,” Eames mutters. “Use the zombie horde as a diversion and run for the corner.”

Unfortunately, Maude spots them before Eames can follow up on his desperate impulse to shove Arthur into the cover of a low hedgerow.

“James and Phillipa,” she calls, waving from her doorway. “Don’t you two look nice. Do you have a trick for me?” she asks James, stooping down to his level. This puts her admittedly attractive cleavage on perfect display for Arthur’s line of sight, particularly when she props her hands on her knees and everything compresses. Eames has seen that trick before. He thinks the mother of a young boy ought to be wearing something a little less scandalous than a sexy witch costume. Perhaps a beekeeping outfit.

Arthur is, of course, both well aware of the flirtation and as perfectly polite as the friend of a friend ought to be. He answers her questions with pleasantries and minor deflection, evading every conversational snare with the ease of someone used to handling international criminals and corporate masterminds. Eames would normally be impressed, but he’s currently occupied with smoldering quietly in the direction of Maude, Maude’s cleavage, and Maude’s ridiculous pointy hat.

He does his best to stay out of it, but when Maude says something about Arthur bringing James and Phillipa around after trick-or-treating so they can trade with her son for their favourite candy, complete with a hand squeezing his bicep and another tactical display of cleavage, Eames coughs to get their attention.

“We should be getting on,” he says, painstakingly bland. “We want to finish the block before it gets too dark.”

Maude looks briefly disappointed, but she covers well. “Of course. Well, it’s a shame Dom couldn’t be here, but it’s so wonderful of you to step in and take the kids around, Arthur. I’m sure they’re glad to have you. Remember you’re always welcome to stop by and visit once you’re finished, or even after you’ve put the kids to bed. I’m sure I’ll be up late.”

Eames just bets she will be. “Thank you for the invitation,” he replies, smoothly regaining control of the conversation. “Have a lovely evening.”

“You too.” She seems resigned to letting them go, and Eames is congratulating himself on another successful escape when Maude calls out after them. “Oh, Arthur! I never guessed your costume. Is it James Bond?” She’s smiling when they turn back around to look at her, and Eames is highly suspicious that her neckline has dropped an inch. “You’ve always seemed very much like James Bond to me.”

Arthur blinks. Eames has to admit, he owes Maude a point for being able to see Arthur caught genuinely at a loss. It doesn’t happen often.

“No,” Arthur says finally. “Good guess, though.”

There’s an awkward moment where Maude waits for the answer and Arthur stonewalls her like the professional he is, and finally she deflates a little. Eames is sympathetic, but he could have told her there was no hope of winning that one.

“Well, have a good night,” she says.

“You too,” Eames replies, and if he’s whistling a little as they walk away, who can really blame him?

Arthur gives him a look, but he doesn’t jab his elbow into yesterday’s bruise, so Eames counts it as a win.

-

“Guess Uncle Arthur’s costume” has become a neighborhood favourite by six-thirty. Eames is tempted to start running a book. He thinks he could rack in quite a take of Sweet Tarts and bubble gum balls.

Phillipa is completely unconcerned with the fact that she doesn’t know the answer either, and is now asking everyone they come across, young or old, to try and figure it out. Arthur is a reasonably good sport about it, repeating “No,” patiently at every guess.

They run into the zombie horde again around quarter-‘til, and one of the boys beats Phillipa to the punch, swaggering up and looking Arthur over with a sneer. He can’t be more than twelve or thirteen, but he has the look of a neighborhood bully and the attitude to match.

“What are _you_ supposed to be?” he asks.

“A ghost,” Arthur answers, straight-faced. Eames glances over at him, brow furrowing. Bully-boy has a similar reaction, his forehead wrinkling up in confusion.

“No you’re not,” he challenges finally.

Arthur doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply standing there staring back at the boy. Then he jerks forward suddenly, looming with a good two extra feet of height, and barks, “Boo!”

The kid trips backwards over his own feet so fast that he nearly falls, and even then it’s an awkward, stumbling save. He stares at Arthur for another second, and then he and the rest of his horde take off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

Eames shakes with silent laughter until he can’t hold it in anymore, and then he’s nearly crying with it, wiping his face with the hand that isn’t still holding Phillipa’s. She and James look taken aback but not frightened, and now they seem much more interested in why their other uncle is in hysterics.

“Have I told you lately that I adore you?” Eames asks when he finally recovers.

“I had some idea,” Arthur replies, the small smile he’s been struggling against finally winning out over his neutral expression.

They keep walking, because there’s an old-fashioned popcorn machine on the corner that they want to make sure to visit and James is beginning to flag. Arthur picks him up without comment a few minutes later, settling James against his side as they continue to walk.

Shortly after that, watching James’ blond head pillowed on Arthur’s shoulder, curiosity overwhelms the easygoing acceptance Eames had previously been entertaining. “Hey,” he says, squeezing Phillipa’s hand. “Why don’t you want to know what his costume is?”

She gives him a look that makes him feel more immensely stupid than even Arthur in the grip of the purest sarcastic condescension. “He’s Uncle Arthur,” she tells him. He doesn’t feel any more intelligent two minutes later, when Arthur sets James down so he and Philippa can run ahead to the popcorn cart on the corner, and Eames belatedly realizes that is actually her answer.

Arthur stands next to him while the man with the cart fills bags of popcorn for the cluster of children surrounding him, answering their questions about him and the cart and how it works.

James starts to lose interest after the wait stretches to a few minutes, but luckily a grandmotherly woman nearby spots his restlessness and starts asking him about his costume.

“Almost makes you want one, doesn’t it?” Eames says mildly, watching James do his magic trick. The woman looks utterly delighted, and looking at James, Eames can’t blame her. James has Mal’s vibrancy and all of Cobb’s charm, and in another fifteen years he’ll either be breaking hearts or turning into the best con man on this side of the Pacific.

Arthur’s eyes cut sideways; Eames knows him well enough not to look away from the children and make direct eye contact. “That depends,” Arthur answers. “Do you?”

Eames smiles slightly. “We’ve been dancing around this conversation for long enough, haven’t we?”

This time Arthur’s the one to smile, barely a quirk of his lips. “You always end your sentences with a question when you’re looking for confirmation,” he says.

“Bugger,” Eames replies succinctly. Arthur knows enough of his tells already; if he learns any more of them, Eames may have to take drastic action. And make a mental note not to allow Arthur in on any more of his poker nights with Cobb and whichever of their colleagues happen to be in the area.

Arthur doesn’t push him for more, which is exactly the reason they’ve never had this conversation. With few exceptions, Arthur has always been willing to let Eames come to him, and Eames is never patient enough to wait him out and turn the tables. Discussions of domesticity and the vague but inevitable future have never been something Eames has actively encouraged, so he’d been just as content to leave them be.

Tonight, though, he’s getting a taste of what one of those possible futures _could_ be like, and that’s apparently enough to prompt him into starting this conversation.

Eames could leave it, use Cobb’s kids as a distraction or change the subject and that would be the end of it, but now that it’s out there, it’s going to be niggling at him, and he prides himself on never actually having been a coward where Arthur is concerned. The worst that can happen, he reasons, is that they discover they want different things, and then they either compromise, adapt, or part ways. It’s in no way as intimidating as Eames’ brain insists on making it.

He does wait until they get back to their apartment, until the kids’ excitement has given way to exhaustion and James falls asleep, Philippa’s eyes drooping heavily when they turn custody back over to Cobb’s nanny. He thinks it over while Arthur checks through the candy to make sure it’s all wrapped, tossing out a Hershey’s kiss that has the foil torn on one corner and pretending not to see when Eames steals it back from the bin and eats it as they leave to drive home.

Ironically enough, one of the things his life and skill set have taught him is that honesty is often the best policy. Stripped down to an undershirt and boxers, he walks from the master bath into the bedroom and leans against the doorframe. Arthur is on the bed, already changed into soft fleece pajama bottoms and a worn t-shirt, contact lenses exchanged for his reading glasses. He’s washed the gel out of his hair and his face is scrubbed pink, and he’s so gorgeous it makes Eames’ chest hurt to look at him.

“Do you want children?” Eames asks, point-blank.

Arthur looks up, blinks once at him, and closes the laptop. “We’re not exactly in a career conducive to raising them,” he points out.

Eames has already considered and dismissed this argument. “You’ve been talking about retirement or a career change for months, and Cobb is managing with minor difficulties.” Not that he wants to use Cobb as an example of stability, but it wouldn’t be like that with them, regardless.

Arthur taps his finger against the lid of his laptop a few times. “Would it be your child?” he asks finally.

It’s not a question of genetics, Eames knows. This is Arthur’s way of saying that if it comes down to a choice between parenthood and Eames, Arthur has already chosen.

A year ago, six months even, it would have been a choice. Now Eames doesn’t think it has to be. “As much mine as yours,” he replies.

Arthur considers him for another moment, and then cracks a very slight, but very genuine smile. “In that case, I probably ought to stick around just to make sure someone will be a good influence,” he answers.

Eames crosses to the bed, crawls over the obstacles of laptop and errant pillows, and kisses Arthur until they have to stop because neither of them can remember how to breathe. “So that’s a yes, then,” he confirms, because it feels like something huge, and he doesn’t want this moment to get lost.

“Adoption is probably the best option,” Arthur says, of course he does, because he’s already moving through the emotional response into planning and logistics. Eames kisses him some more because of it, and to make him stop doing it, and just because he wants to.

“I have contacts in Africa,” he murmurs against Arthur’s mouth when they break apart as far as Eames is willing to go right now. “I can make a few calls tomorrow.”

Arthur shakes his head. “There’s no rush,” he says, because apparently he isn’t feeling the same fluttery, helplessly ridiculous feeling Eames has caught in his chest. Either that or he’s just better at pretending otherwise.

Eames moves forward until Arthur has to give ground, sinking back against the pillows. “Let’s make a baby,” he breathes, nuzzling Arthur’s jaw.

“I will shoot you,” Arthur promises, fingers tightening warningly in Eames’ hair.

Eames just laughs and kisses him again.


End file.
